


Darker Than Black

by trucizna



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Child Abuse, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up Together, Haunted Houses, No Sex, Physical Abuse, Platonic Relationships, Profound friendship, Steve protects, a dog dies off-screen, child bucky, cryptid steve, friends-to-friends, steve attacks, they're both new to this world, wholesome by my twisted standards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trucizna/pseuds/trucizna
Summary: Bucky has a monster living under his bed. Now he also has a friend.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 87





	Darker Than Black

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChildOfKindlyWest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChildOfKindlyWest/gifts).



> Inspired by this prompt from @WinterStresser on Twitter:  
> https://twitter.com/winterstresser/status/1225879564783583232?s=21
> 
> I hope it lives up to the brilliance of the concept posts <3  
> Mind the tags.

* * *

They moved into the house when Bucky was eight years old. Everything they owned fit in the back of his daddy‘s truck, and he remembered helping him throw away so many boxes of things after the funeral to make sure they’d only have to make the one trip. And when Bucky asked why, his daddy said, “your mother doesn’t need these anymore” and that was that.

The house felt like a monstrous thing after their old apartment, and where that apartment had shiny walls and electrical outlets on every corner, gleaming silver appliances and wood floors so smooth Bucky could see his reflection in them, nothing shined in this house. The outer walls were a noncommittal gray, and if you looked at the neighbors’ paint you could kind of guess what color they used to be. Everywhere you looked the paint was peeling off in places and Bucky liked to peel them back more and more, hunting for whatever delight might be hidden underneath. Every time he caught him his father slapped his hand, and he never really found anything, so Bucky stopped looking after a while.

Inside was no brighter. Paint had yellowed, porcelain chipped, baseboards cracked. None of the drawers in the kitchen closed properly, the sink was dented. Every time Bucky opened a new door he sneezed. The whole place smelled like a grandpa and like the back of his mama’s closet when he used to hide from all the yelling. 

He loved the house instantly.

His room was the smaller of the two, tucked in the back of the narrow second floor. The door creaked every time it opened and there was a worn floorboard that felt rougher than the others and caught on his socks if he wasn’t careful. His coat hung in the shallow closet above the cubbies that held the rest of his clothes, and his twin bed took up most of the rest of the room. When he turned in a circle in the middle of his floor, looking up at the popcorn ceiling, he imagined the glow-in-the-dark stars he wanted to put above his bed, and the car posters he’d hang on the eggshell walls. The room didn’t come with a ceiling lamp like his old room did, so his daddy had put a gangly metal lamp in the corner—it was wobbly enough that it needed to lean a little against the wall, like it was resting. Bucky liked to look at its shadow in his nightlight while he was in bed and imagine it was telling him stories like his mama used to do.

It was nights like this that he missed her so much his chest hurt, his eyes hurt, and he’d cry and cry and cry.

And it was nights like this where the whispers and scratching of whatever lives under his bed was just a little bit louder, the unusual almost-rhythm of the scraping lulling him eventually to sleep through his exhausted tears.

* * *

“Oh, you live _there_?” Tommy said, stopping so suddenly on the sidewalk Bucky bumped into him. “I’m not going in there, it’s haunted.”

He looked between his friend and his house, his friend and back to his house. “What do you mean?”

“I heard someone was murdered in there. I mean, look at it. It’s creepy. I bet it’s full of ghosts.” 

Bucky looked. He saw the same chipped paint, the broken shutters, and the scratched screen door. He saw only his house. “But it’s my birthday.” He said, stupidly. Tommy _knew_ it was his birthday. It was why he was over in the first place.

“Not for long,” Tommy said firmly, his round cheeks dipped into a pout. “You’re gonna die.” 

“Am not. My house likes me. I can tell.”

“That’s dumb, how can a house like someone?”

“I can just tell, okay?” He crossed his arms and looked back at the house, frowning. There was a warmth he couldn’t describe. Sometimes he could hear it breathing, and he could feel the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up like it was watching him. Looking out for him. He didn’t think Tommy would understand even if he found the right words. “Maybe it just doesn’t like _you_.”

“Okay, fine then. Go die in your creepy house. I’m going home.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Bucky watched Tommy slouch away for only a few seconds before he stomped up the cracked and weedy walkway. He knew better than to slam open the door. It wasn’t even four—he and Tommy hadn’t dawdled long at school before heading over—but that didn’t mean dad wasn’t asleep. Softly closing the latch behind him, he slipped off his shoes and maneuvered along the floorboards he knew were the softest, peeking into the living room. 

His dad wasn’t asleep yet, but looked close—two bottles leaned against the bottom of the couch and another dangled between his limp fingers. Something kinetic on low volume played out on the TV as he watched through half-closed eyes. Bucky backed out softly and took to the stairs, slinking along the edge closest to the wall to keep silent.

He flopped backwards onto his bed with a soft exhale, staring up at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars he’d put up had all fallen down mere hours after he’d glued them in place—the textured ceiling would never support them—and so he watched the patterns swirled into the aging paint that he’d learned to love like constellations.

The floor beneath his bed creaked and groaned and nearly breathed, and before he knew it the soft sounds lulled him into a smooth, unburdened sleep.

* * *

He awoke, groggy in a dark deep enough that he knew it was very, very late—too late to be early enough to stay up. He’d never forgotten his nightlight before and the darkness took on a new quality, something surprisingly warm. He expected sinister, and Tommy’s words floated back to him. _Haunted_. But what did Tommy know, really? He’d probably never even read a horror book in his whole stupid life. Bucky sighed and felt something heavy sigh in an echo beneath him, stretched and heavy as fingernails scraping on old wood.

On an impulse, he rolled himself out of bed and crouched on the floor, peering underneath. He didn’t know there was a color darker than black until he found himself staring into it, like a chasm, like what he imagined the earth underneath the bottom of the grand canyon would be when the stars were erased from the sky by something out of this world entirely.

Narrow blue eyes, glowing too-bright in the middle of all that devastating ink, stared back at him. They were lidless and slotted with slim irises as black as the abyss unable to contain them. Bucky should have been afraid—he felt his limbs tense and his heart jump—and he would never be able to explain why he wasn’t.

“Hello,” he said instead. “My name is Bucky.”

The silence settled for a few seconds, and Bucky was struck that his room had never been this quiet before. He held his breath. 

Then there was a soft slithering, and what was almost black tendrils peeled away from a gaping mouth, rows of devastatingly sharp teeth glinting from underneath those shining eyes. Bucky sucked in a shaking breath and settled into a cross-legged seat. 

“HeLLo,” it said, voice distorted and wide, echoing in Bucky’s head. That alluring bright mouth didn’t move at all. “wHy ArE yOu oUT oF bEd?”

He thought that wasn’t the question he would have asked if _he_ were a monster, but it was none of his business. “I wanted to talk to you.”

The silence stretched heavily as the undulating shadows pulsed around that mouth, until the voice whispered, “WhY?”

Bucky realized he wasn’t sure. He stopped to think, following the creature’s lead, recognizing pauses as meaningful to it. “I’m not sure,” he said, slowly. “Maybe we can be friends?”

This time the pause was much shorter. “yOu WaNt tO bE FriEnDs WiTh mE?”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky shrugged, “I don’t have a lot of friends. And you’re always here, so I thought…” he trailed off, watching the shadows pulse then still. Bucky swallowed, waiting, trying not to squirm. When the quiet stretched a little too long, he whispered, face falling, “do you not want to be friends with me? It’s okay, you don’t—“

But before he finished a strand of darkness slithered out from the void behind those bright blue eyes and wrapped gently around Bucky’s wrist. “nO! i Do.”

His face split into a grin as the tendril let go and slowly withdrew. “I think we’re gonna be best friends. I can _feel_ it.”

* * *

“Bucky, _Mijo!_ ” He turned toward the voice from where he was tromping across the lawn, looking for a stick the size he needed. Maria was on her porch, waving, apron loose around her waist over worn navy sweatpants and a flowered blouse. “Come here, kid, I have something for you.”

He dropped the stick he’d found and rushed across the grass toward her, his eyes automatically skipping over to the doghouse that was bigger than he was, painted to match Maria’s house. As expected, the huge golden mutt bound out of the opening to lick and nip playfully at Bucky as he ran, barking happily.

Maria was thin and tall, and Bucky saw flecks of flour coming off of her apron as she led him into her house. As soon as he made it into the entryway the smell hit him. Cinnamon and butter. His mouth watered and he rushed to take off his shoes. “Did you—”

“I did,” she said, smiling warmly. “A little birdy told me it was your birthday yesterday.”

“How did you know?” Bucky finally kicked off his last shoe and slid along the smooth tile of the foyer in his socks, rushing toward the kitchen. Maria laughed at him, a joyful kind thing, and he loved the sound.

“A grandmother always knows,” she said, smirking as she followed at a more sedate pace. The dog pressed his nose into Bucky’s side, whining. “Leave the poor boy alone, Steve. That dog loves you, Bucky. And he doesn’t like just _anybody._ I’m telling you, you’re special.”

“Um,” Bucky didn’t know what to say, the warmth rising so strongly inside his chest he was overwhelmed. But he was raised to be polite to adults so he said, “thank you, ma’am,” even as he reached for the plate on the counter. 

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” she leaned against the entry jamb, nodding when Bucky looked at her with his fingers a hair from a cookie, questioning. “They’re all for you.”

Bucky shoved the snickerdoodle into his mouth, humming joyfully, and another laugh burst out of Maria. “I made you tamales, too. Chicken.” 

“Thank you,” Bucky remembered to say through the crumbs.

“You’re too skinny,” Maria clucked her tongue. “Doesn’t your father feed you?” 

Her voice was light in a way he recognized as teasing, but his face fell as he realized with a shock that he hadn’t eaten since lunch at school the day before. Maria frowned, but it wasn’t angry. Bucky wasn’t afraid. She pushed a plate covered in aluminum foil toward him. “Take both plates home, share them with your father. Or don’t share at all! It’s your birthday. You get to decide. After all, you only turn nine once.” 

* * *

When Bucky came home later that afternoon with the plate of still-warm tamales and a zippy back of snickerdoodles, his father was awake. Bucky paused, stilling, watching his face. His eyes were red and the circles under them were dark, darker than usual. “Hi daddy,” he said, softly. His father probably had a headache, “I brought tamales and cookies.” 

“Where the fuck did you get those.” His voice was gravel, sharp.

“Maria gave them to me, she—” then his father’s hand was gripping Bucky’s upper arm too-tight. Startled, he gasped and felt the plate slipping. It shattered at his feet and Bucky started to cry.

As his father dragged Bucky out of the entryway, his voice began to rise. “And what did she say? Huh? That I can’t take care of my own damn son?”

“No! No, she—“

“Shut the fuck up.” He kept one hand clenched to the point of pain on Bucky’s arm and began to undo his belt with the other. The belt was fake leather but Bucky knew the pain it inflicted was real enough.

“Dad, no, I didn’t—“

“I thought I told you to keep that mouth shut.”

The tears were coming in force now, and through his swimming eyes Bucky thought he saw the house _flex_ . He blinked and sniffled, trying to get his face under control. Crying too much always made it worse, his dad _hated_ that.

“Bend over.” He hissed. “I _said_ , bend over or this is gonna hurt a lot more than it has to.”

The living room turned cold, and it filled with a kind of absence—something dark despite the sunlight burning freely through the windows. The overhead light flickered and went out.

Bucky took it as quietly as he could.

* * *

The tamales were hopeless, but since the cookies were in a plastic bag Bucky was able to sneak it to his room to scavenge the crumbs.

He lay on his stomach on the floor and peered under the bed, but the space looked small, smaller than he ever remembered, and empty. He sighed and turned onto his back, letting the rough floor cool his backside through his jeans, and ate the pieces of cookie as he mapped more stories on the ceiling in the afternoon light.

* * *

He woke up later that night, sore from the beating and falling asleep on the floor. The nightlight was gone but Bucky didn’t think he was going to need it anymore. He turned his head and saw those neon eyes looking back at him. With a sigh of relief he whispered, “I was worried you left.”

“nO, nEveR,” it said. “wE aRe fRiEnDs.”

Buck smiled, relaxing slowly. “Where do you go, during the day? I couldn’t find you.”

“ThE LiGhT, i hAvE tO gO wHeN. tHe LiGHt, iT hUrTs.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky said, reaching his hand under the bed to meet a dark smooth tendril. “I‘m just glad you’re here.”

  
  


* * *

In the middle of that night, Bucky crept carefully downstairs. When he didn’t see his father, he checked the street to confirm the car was gone. Less worried about sound now, he gathered all the jagged pieces of Maria’s broken plate into a plastic container and the spattered tamales into a separate one. The corn leaves looked okay and seemed to protect the food from too much damage, so he thought they’d be okay to eat anyway. While two were heating up in the microwave, he dragged a chair over to the hall closet to pull the toolbox out of the top.

* * *

Just over two weeks later Maria was waiting for Bucky on her porch as he walked home. When he saw her, he tucked his head down and quickened his pace.

“Bucky, hey sweetheart, wait up. Wait up, okay? Come here.”

He stopped, staring down at the sidewalk past his worn sneakers and their broken laces. Like facing a gallows, he turned toward her door. With a bark, Steve came surging down the walkway and nearly knocked Bucky of his feet with his excitement, licking at his hands and hopping in circles around him. Every lick and happy yip bolstered Bucky, and he found himself standing taller, taking longer steps to meet Maria on her porch. To his surprise, Maria pulled Bucky into a tight hug as soon as he made it up the last step.

“Oh, you sweet boy,” she said, rubbing his back and rocking a little back and forth. “How long did it take you to glue that plate back together?”

He muttered something into her stomach. Steve barked happily into the back of his knee.

“Sweetheart, you didn’t need to do that.” She pulled away from the hug and held Bucky by the shoulder at arm’s length, leaning down to look him seriously in the eye. “Accidents happen. I’ll never be angry at you for an accident, okay honey?”

“But it was such a nice plate,” Bucky mumbled.

“That’s the great thing about Target, you can get cheap junk that looks bougie. Don’t fret your pretty little head about it. I don’t mind. But thank you, sweetheart, for your thoughtfulness.”

Bucky found himself sniffling and nodding as Maria released him, pushing his fingers into the soft fur on top of Steve’s head. Maria wrapped her arm around his shoulders and led him gently inside. “Come on, I made more cookies and I need a taste-tester. Will you help an old lady out?”

* * *

Cookies devoured and stomach bulging, Bucky was chatting amiably with Maria when something raced up his spine; a heavy, electric _zing_.

“Oh no,” he whispered, interrupting Maria mid-sentence. Steve began to bark. Bucky didn’t know what was happening, only that it was not going to be good, like his body was warning him. Like something in the base of his skull was shouting _‘look out!’_

Maria frowned at Steve, shushing him ineffectively, but looked up when three banging knocks sounded on her door. It sounded like someone tall was using their whole fist.

“Stay here, _mijo_ ,” she said, getting to her feet. Bucky stood up, too, one hand on Steve’s collar. The electricity in his spine had only barely abated, and he vibrated with the need to _do something_. As Maria unlatched the door and pulled it smoothly open, Bucky’s fingers clenched in Steve’s fur.

“What are you doing with my son?” 

“Well good afternoon to you too, George. He’s been helping me make cookies. What are you so worried about?”

“I’m just here for my son, Maria.”

Heavy footsteps stomped through Maria’s entryway, and Bucky was aghast that his father didn’t take off his shoes, that’s so _rude_ , and then he was in front of Bucky and Steve was growling and George grabbed Bucky’s arm and Steve pulled away from Bucky’s grip with his teeth snapping and Bucky screamed and—

* * *

“I cOuLd nOt kEeP yOu sAfe. iN tHe LiGhT.” 

“I’m okay, it’s okay.”

“nO. bUcKy. FriEnD.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

* * *

After that, Bucky’s father would light up with something dangerous and approach Bucky, fist clenching, and then _something_ would happen. Something George couldn’t explain, but Bucky figured out pretty quickly.

It started small. A wildly flickering light. A slip on the stairs. Bumping his head into a cabinet he swore he had closed. It was usually enough to distract him just enough to leave Bucky alone, and Bucky would slink away to his room to breathe.

He would thank the monster and if it was daytime, he’d get a pulse in his spine and a quiet hiss, but if it was dark enough they’d get to talk for a little. The creature would puff up, worming out from under the bed, and stroke Bucky’s cheek or hair before encouraging him to get up off the floor and under the covers. 

Things escalated so quietly and naturally Bucky didn’t notice the changes for a long time.

* * *

He was ten when he woke up for the first time in his bed, under the blankets, after having fallen asleep on the floor next to the creature under the bed. He’d touched the monster before, felt whatever equated to its flesh, but this felt much more real. 

That night he lay on the floor again, a familiar splinter catching in his hair as he squirmed around the creature’s merciless tickling. He muffled a shriek and tried to cover his sides against the onslaught, but it was everywhere, more tentacles than he could count, and the susurrations echoing in his skull felt like laughing.

The creature took mercy on him and he lay, panting, while it worked the wood out of the tangle in his hair. 

“Maria had a dog like you,” Bucky said. “His name was Steve, like a person. He loved me, always followed me around her place, kissing me and wagging his tail. But whenever anyone besides Maria came close, he’d snap at them.”

The creature successfully untangled Bucky’s hair but kept the soft tendril resting on his head, gently playing with the strands.

“He bit my dad once,” Bucky continued, softer now. “Dad called the police and they took Steve away. Maria said they made him go to sleep and he can’t come back. I know that means he’s dead. It means… it means he died protecting me.”

“He was so strong. And brave. And my friend.” Bucky’s voice grew almost too small to hear. “You remind me of him, and you need a good name. So… can I call you Steve?”

The shadows gathered and deepened; Bucky drew backwards instinctively with a startled gasp. The creature swelled and began to seethe out from under the bed, writhing and twisting as those glowing eyes and glinting teeth manifested between the slithering pieces. A shape began to form, somewhat humanoid with massive shoulders, looming tall over Bucky and toward the ceiling.

Bucky didn’t know there was a shade darker than black, and he didn’t know it could pulse like that. He crawled backward, scooting across the floor in primal fear. But the shape dipped toward him and wrapped human-like arms around him gently, softly, and a smooth warmth seeped into Bucky’s bones even as the goosebumps on his neck and arm didn’t abate in the slightest. 

“yEs.” The creature—Steve—said into his ear.

Bucky exhaled, wrapping his arms back around as Steve’s tendrils solidified, turning tangible.

“But you have to stop hurting my dad, okay?” The responding growl echoed through the entirety of Bucky’s body. “I’m serious! He might call somebody, and then you’d get taken away too, and I can't—”

Steve drew away and grew impossibly larger, filling the room, a black steam rising from his edges and his head slipping against the ceiling. “nO. No OnE wiLL tAkE yOu fRoM mE. aNd i WiLL kiLL anY wHo tRy.”

Bucky exhaled as Steve wrapped that warmth around him again, chasing all the cold from the room.

* * *

END


End file.
